


The Moment of Truth

by Ganymeme



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Drabble Collection, Gen, Short
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:29:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1989855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ganymeme/pseuds/Ganymeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Something prickled at the edge of his consciousness, at his tie to the Beyond. Leth frowned and began to call out a warning – but Tamlen, foolish Tamlen, was already reaching for it.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Then there was a white light, a light that consumed everything, and then nothing.</i></p><p> </p><p>A collection of drabbles following my mage!Mahariel playthrough, using the Dalish Mage Origin mod. Ratings & warnings may change as time goes on, because it is Dragon Age, after all. Updates will be sporadic, since they rely on me both playing the game and actually writing. And if you're thinking "there's no way MeriBlue actually used a lyric from This Is War for the title" then... you'd be wrong. I am the worst at titles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_discovery._

“Well, would you look at that, Leth! Those shem _were_ telling the truth!” Tamlen stood at the cave mouth, peering inside.

“Guess so,” Leth agreed. Tamlen grinned back at him, a familiar spark of challenge in his eyes.

“Well, lethallin, shall we go in?”

“Enter a mysterious cave, full of monsters and almost certain death?” Leth laughed. “What are we waiting for? Lead on!”

“What, me go first? Why do you never go first? You could set things on fire for me!” Tamlen’s voice echoed off the cave walls. Leth grinned at his friend’s back.

“Well, it was your idea!”


	2. Chapter 2

_the mirror._

He didn’t notice the mirror at first. His singed fingertips and the twisted bear-monster at his feet were distraction enough. But then Tamlen said something – he didn’t catch what – and Harleth looked up.

A frission of fear raced up his spine. A great mirror stood on a pedestal, its frame cracked and warped with age beyond knowing. But its glass – its glass was smooth and bright and clear.

Too bright.

Something prickled at the edge of his consciousness, at his tie to the Beyond. Leth frowned and began to call out a warning – but Tamlen, foolish Tamlen, was already reaching for it.

Then there was a white light, a light that consumed everything, and then nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

_awakening._

Pain. Blackness and greyness, vision swimming, the world too bright. Something burning through his veins, through his blood. His throat – raw and bloody. Has he been screaming? He can’t hear. But then he can – and everything is loud, very loud. The whisper of cloth on cloth, the hum of magic, a voice, two voices.

He screams again, or tries to, but the pain makes him retch and then he is writhing, sobbing. A cool hand on his forehead – and darkness returns.

A voice again. A voice he knows – Marethari. Her hands on him, her magic coursing through him, bright and good and burning away what _feels_ like sticky, stinging darkness. Her magic stops, and he sleeps.

He wakes a third time, and this time he knows who he is, where he is. Harleth Mahariel, and he is in camp, can hear the familiar clatter of the clan beyond the tent walls. Pillows and woven blankets and a few precious books – he is in Marethari’s own tent, laying half-naked on a sleeping mat. His leathers are piled neatly at his feet and he feels stiff, sore, as though he has been here for days... but otherwise, he is well.

Hungry, though, very hungry. That hunger pushes him to his feet and to his leathers, pulling on jerkin and bracers and boots hastily before stumbling out into the sunlight.


	4. Chapter 4

_take the grey._

“You _what_?” His voice cracks and mentally, Leth reels. Here he had thought this day couldn’t get any worse. “You want me to _leave_? Leave the _clan_?”

He isn’t shouting, not quite, but the old women weaving baskets out of rushes not far off are looking at them. Good. Maybe someone will step in, will tell Marethari she can’t do this, can’t send him away.

“No, no, da’len, I do not want you to leave... but it is for the best. It is a great honour, you know, to become a Grey Warden.”

The shem at her side rumbles something, but Leth ignores him.

“A great honour? I don’t care! You won’t – you can’t. Keeper, Marethari, _please_.” He is begging and that should burn his pride, but Leth can’t bring himself to care. Tamlen is gone, dead or as good as dead, and he too is dying.

(He wouldn’t believe that, doesn’t want to believe a word this strange tall shem says. But he can feel it within him, a dark and coiling _thing_ that is slowly seeping back into his body.)

“Da’len – Leth. I-“ Marethari seems shaken, her lips drawn tight and thin. _Good_ , Leth thinks savagely. She takes a deep breath.

“Harleth, da’len, if you don’t do this, you _will_ die. Would you have the clan bury another of our young?”

“I’d rather die here among the People than go with the _shem_.” He spits the word like the curse it is. Marethari sighs heavily and the shem speaks again. _Surprised he doesn’t grunt like a pig_ , Leth thinks with a sneer.

“Then you leave me no choice, Harleth.”

Leth’s lip curls. Great. The shem knows his name. He prepares a scathing remark, but then-

“I hereby invoke the Right of Conscription and claim you, Harleth Mahariel, as a warden-recruit of the Grey Wardens.”

“And I, Keeper Marethari, recognize and allow this Right.”

The words fall heavy from Marethari’s lips but Leth barely notices. No. No this cannot be. Marethari would never – he is too precious to the clan! He’s a _mage_! An unwilling one, one who hunts and follows Andruil’s path, but a mage still!

Leth’s throat works but no sound comes out. He’s not even sure what he’s trying to say. He looks from his Keeper to the shem and finally croaks, “What?”

There is something far too close to pity in the shem’s eyes for Leth’s taste.

“Will you fight me on this, Harleth? I will carry you kicking and screaming all the way to Ostagar if need be.”

Jerkily, Leth shakes his head. No. No he won’t fight. What would be the point?

“Very well. We leave in the morning. I will come for you then. I am sorry it has come to this.”

Nothing seems quite real Leth thinks, stomach churning. Is he sick? Scared? Maybe he shouldn’t have eaten all those mehshi earlier.

“It could not be helped, Duncan," Marethari is speaking as though he isn't even there, but the anger has drained out of him. "But you have our thanks. Take care of him; it is not lightly that we let one of our own leave.”

As he turns to go to his tent, the only thing Leth can think is ‘Who will tell my sister?’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [mehshi](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dolma#Lebanese) \- stuffed vegetables, Lebanese word shamelessly stolen for the fact that it fits with DA Elvish.
> 
> Typically I define a drabble by the very strict "100 words only", but my skills are rusty... and this one got a little bit away from me. ;P


	5. Chapter 5

_put your life away._

Fenarel is there, and for that, Leth is glad. Since the failed search for Tamlen, Fenarel has been a steady, quiet presence at his side. Now he is here, in the tent that Leth and Tamlen shared. Leth’s hands tremble as he rolls his winter furs into the bottom of his pack. He can barely bring himself to look at Tamlen’s side, at his sleeping mat and the scattered carving tools.

Leth packs – travel rations, whetstone, repair kit. Oilcloth. A woven bracelet on his wrist, a brassy chain wrapped around it, a necklace of bear claws around his neck.

Leth packs, and so does Fenarel. Their actions are eerie reflections of each other, Leth thinks. Packing up the pieces of two lives woven so closely together that one cannot be alive without the other. Tamlen is as good as dead, and now so is he.


	6. Chapter 6

_goodbye._

There is no body to bury, but they plant a tree anyway. A willow sapling, on the bank of the brook. No body beneath its roots, but Tamlen’s most treasured possessions instead. Paivel sings, and others join in, but Leth turns away, stumbles from the torchlight into the nighttime gloom.

Merrill finds him. Awkward, aggravating, annoying, goody-no-shoes Merrill. Keeper’s First, everything Leth never wanted – but should have been.

“I’ll miss you,” she blurts out. “And- and Tamlen.”

Leth swallows. “He liked you, you know.” His voice is rough with suppressed tears.

“What?” Merrill stares at him.

“Tamlen. He- I,” There are too many words lodged in his throat, too much between Leth and the girl – young woman, really, she has her vallaslin now – standing before him. The years he spent learning magic alongside her are suddenly vivid, immediate and bright in his memory.

“Sorry,” He whispers and turns away, hot tears prickling at his eyes. Creators’ graces, but he hates saying goodbye.


	7. Chapter 7

_food._

Travelling with the shem is... strange. The clan camp fades swiftly, swallowed by the morning mists and the forest’s grasp. They pause briefly, on the outskirts of the shemlen village. Leth half expects the shem to demand he follow him in, in to the squat, square houses and mud and chaos and animals. But he doesn’t, so Leth waits in the woods at the edge of a farmer’s field.

The shem returns, laden down with food. Shem food, Leth realizes, fatty meats and grain-breads and cheese.

“I’ll cook for myself,” he says curtly that evening, prodding a small fire to life. He doesn’t look at the shem but squares his shoulders and set his jaw, ready for an argument, a protest, laughter.

He isn’t ready for the calm nod or the simple, “As you like.”


	8. Chapter 8

_fire._

Shemlen don’t like magic. They’re afraid of it, and of mages. They take mages and lock them away. Don’t talk about magic around shemlen, ever.

Even before he knew he was a mage, Leth knew that. Rationally, he also knows that the shem Warden knows he is a mage. It’s not as if he throws it around, though, and ever since he turned to the Vir Tanadhal he’s used it - magic - as little as possible. The other hunters avoided mentioning it. Creators, the entire _clan_ went out of their way to not mention it.

Except for Mela, of course, and Tamlen.

“Harleth?” The Warden is looking at him, waiting expectantly.

“I- yes. Yes, of- of course. Right.”

He tears himself out of his thoughts with a jerky lurch. The rain is falling in sheets, a spray misting in under the overhang they’ve found. Leth hunches over the campfire, focuses and unfocuses, reaches for the Beyond – and flames blaze up from the damp wood. The metallic scent of burning wet pine follows, curling upwards with the smoke.


	9. Chapter 9

_fight._

They left the hills proper behind a day ago, but the wild land they walk in now is all hillocks and cliffs, jutting pines and rushing rapids. Leth can’t see beyond the next looming boulder and dense brush. When the Warden stops abruptly and goes tense, hand flying to his sword, Leth stares.

“Darkspawn,” the Warden says. A piercing look at Leth, measuring. “Are you well enough to fight?”

Leth scowls and shrugs out of his pack, dumps it under a tree and begins stringing his bow. “How do-“

The Warden shakes his head and abandons his own pack by Leth’s, loosens his weapons in their scabbards and rolls his shoulders.

“Less than a dozen. They’ll go for me – stay at range.”

Leth’s scowl deepens. He _knows_ what to do, sod it. He falls back, following the Warden at a distance. They round a bend and there they are. He’d almost swear the monsters look suprised, but then they’re howling and rushing at the Warden as one. Leth keeps back, loosing arrows into their midst.

It’s almost _easy_ he thinks, a bit bewildered, but then one – a giant, shem-sized and spitting – rushes for him. He reacts as he did in the forest with Tamlen and roots rip up from the soil, coil and lash, sending the monster tumbling. His heart is racing and for the first time in days he feels _alive_ as he calls fire to his hand and aims it at the darkspawn.

He ignores the Warden’s directions after that, and throws himself into the fray, bow abandoned in favour of his dar’misu. In the center, the Warden is a whirl of blades and white. Leth stays on the edges, steel flashing in his left hand and fire burning in his right, the ground roiling as roots burst through shallow, rocky soil.

The last darkspawn falls to the shem’s blade and dies gurgling. The silence is sudden, but not absolute. Leth pants, short of breath and heart racing. His limbs feel rubbery and weak, the corruption coiling dark beneath his skin. But he’s unwounded and meets the Warden’s gaze with a fierce grin.

“That was fun,” he says lightly, and Duncan actually chuckles.


	10. Chapter 10

_fear._

“We’ll reach Ostagar and the king’s army tomorrow,” Duncan says.

Leth sets his jaw and hunches lower over the arrows he’s fletching. Duncan waits, but when Leth doesn’t speak, he continues.

“I do not know how much... experience of humans you have, Harleth. There will be other elves there but they-“

“Flat-ears,” Leth sneers. Duncan pauses, coughs.

“Well. They will all be servants. Others... others in the camp may see you and –“

“If some fucking shem thinks he’s going to order me around, he can think again,” Leth snaps. He can practically feel Ashalle boxing his ears for interrupting, but Creators all witness it, he doesn’t need to sit here and listen to some shem talk at him about _other_ shem.

He throws the arrow shafts aside and stands.

“Don’t disturb me,” he snarls, and stalks out of their little circle of firelight and into the welcoming – and shem-free – darkness.


	11. Chapter 11

_staff._

The emissary falls, black blood spilling from throat and gut. The stench of offal and the iron-bitter bite of blood fill the air. Leth chokes and stumbles, his feet slipping on the wet logs. He is dizzy and parched, the heavy, damp heat of the marsh leeching all moisture from him.

Distantly, one of the shemlen cries out in triumph: the last darkspawn has fallen. Leth sinks to his knees by the emissary’s corpse, his vision swimming. Sweat drips down his back, his forehead. His leathers are slick and stained, his fingertips singed by his own fire. He fumbles his dar’misu into its sheath and grasps for his waterskin.

The tepid water runs down his face, behind his ears, over his neck. Leth gasps, rubs his eyes with a trembling hand. _Mythal’s mercy._

The shem are circling back towards him; only the Warden doesn’t look ready to collapse. He’s saying something about the treaties they search for, but Leth’s attention drifts.

The emissary’s staff is an arm’s reach away. A twisted, gnarled thing made of some unrecognizable wood. He had a staff once, years ago. A fine one made of ash, slim and strong. He gave it up, like so much else, but he remembers how _easy_ it was. And he is so very tired, his mana reserves so low.

The others look askance when he picks up the darkspawn staff. It is riddled with corruption, with the same black taint that twists through Leth’s body. He digs its butt into the ground and hauls himself upright, staggers briefly, whirls – a nearby stump explodes in a spray of wood and acid.

Leth feels his lips curling back in a grin, feels the clench of his fingers around the rough wood. The Warden is watching him, a frown creasing his brow, his eyes on Leth’s hand. Leth glances down. At first he only sees the fetish of yellow bone bumping against his knuckles.

Then he sees the mottled purple-dark stain that stretches across the back of his hand. It is a greyish taint against his brown skin.

“Let’s get moving,” he says shortly. He turns away and begins walking, not waiting to see if any of the shem follow. But follow they do, and if any notice how he leans on the staff, they don’t speak a word.


	12. Chapter 12

_blood._

The thief dies in agony. His face is twisted in a silent scream as his body spasms against the stones. The contortions go on longer than Leth would have thought possible before finally, thankfully, it ends. The only sounds were of Daveth choking on the blood and his own tongue.

The knight dies swiftly. Leth can’t summon any compassion for the man as he backs away, his white face corpse-pale with fear. He screams, once, as Duncan’s dagger bites into his flesh. Then his throat is slit and Jory’s body is slumping against the wall.

He expects pain. He expects fear. He doesn’t expect the blood to be hot, or sweet-sauce thick. Leth gags it down and as he feels the flush of corruption spreading through him the only thing he feels is relief.

Finally, he will have his answer.


	13. Chapter 13

_stone._

He can’t use his magic how he likes to in here. Stone surrounds them on all sides and if the plants of the Wilds had encroached at all upon this ruin, the shem removed them. But stone is still earth, even shaped and mortared in place. Mortar crumbles as Leth’s magic pulls stone from the walls. He collapses a doorway on three darkspawn, laughing gaily as Alistair stumbles backwards, cursing.

He smirks when the shem glares at him. But as they press on, Leth lays a hand on the back of the shem’s neck, sends a pulse of healing magic through him. It’s undirected and unrefined – healing has never been his strength, even after tutelage by one such as Marethari – but it does the job.

They reach the top of the tower, step out into open air, and for a brief, mad moment Leth imagines sending his magic coursing down through the tower and shaking all the stone loose, sending them and this bellowing monstrosity in front of them to their deaths.

“Can you do anything?” Alistair’s voice is strained.

_I can collapse this tower_ , Leth thinks. But he scans the area, spots the giant pile of wood.

“I can light the beacon,” he says instead, and plants his feet.


	14. Chapter 14

_sky._

The storm has increased threefold since they entered the tower. Here, above all else except the distant mountains, the wind howls its fury and the rain lashes at them. Leth tilts his face up, welcomes the sting of rain on skin.

He hears a peel of thunder in the distance and grins. A stormy sky, a high place, and solid stone beneath his feet... he couldn’t be better placed.

The lightning crackles around his hands, weaves a dancing net around his fingers and down his arms. The air around him tastes of copper and the lightning fights his control, tries to reach skyward and stoneward, to call the bolt onto him.

Leth breathes in, tastes lightning on his tongue. Breathes out, feels his magic build behind his ribs. He focuses all his attention, all the built-up energy of the spell, on the wood of the beacon.

The release is abrupt; the blue flash and crack of thunder near simultaneous. The rush leaves Leth giddy and he laughs as the ogre bellows, staggering and blinded.

And flames and smoke curl up from the beacon, building swiftly into a blaze that they must surely see far below, even through the sheeting rain.


End file.
